


Pebble in a Stream

by Nova (Ars_Nova)



Category: Subarashiki Kono Sekai | The World Ends With You
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-09
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ars_Nova/pseuds/Nova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody said the afterlife was gonna be a cakewalk, but at least there's good company and good music. Now if only he could forget how he got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pebble in a Stream

**Author's Note:**

> (Last revised 5-26-2014)

It’s a slow day for Towa Records, just how Kariya likes it. The customers are sparse, the streets outside are surprisingly quiet, and Yoji’s just put on a new playlist. All steady, measured beats and humming bass—dude knows where it’s at. Kariya leans back, elbows on the counter, while Yoji tells him about some new CD reviews that just went up. As he listens, he stares at a pin in his hand, printed with a little rodent that used to be a bright young girl. He scrubs its surface with his thumb, and for a second he thinks he sees the girl's reflection beneath it. A freeze-frame of her final moments, in mid-jump, shoving a friend to safety as she's swallowed whole.

When Kariya tells people that he’s been around a long time, he knows they don’t get it. They chuckle and give him pet names, like 'geezer' and 'grandpa.' They ask him what he wore in the 60’s. They’re thinking in decades. The truth runs deeper—deeper than any bull, tiger, or snake can dig up. Only the Composer knows, because only he was there. Kariya revisits those days a lot, often unintentionally—The real world is a hazy concept when you're dead, the kind that can be interrupted by foggy spots and bursts of memory. Does anyone else get that, or is it just him? He doesn't dare ask the others.

The UG is still a novel idea when Kariya arrives, no sprawling playground but a mere patch of grass struggling to soak up water and sunlight. The Composer comes to wake him personally; still lying in the street from where the car hit him, he groans  _Five more minutes_  and rolls over.

The Composer laughs, with a voice like distant thunder. **Late sleeper even in death, hm?**

A bell rings. The memory peels away and Kariya’s back in the store, still staring at the pin. He looks up and sees a little lady shuffling through the door. Thick-framed glasses, wool sweater. Long, messy braids. Kinda tense, like a frightened cat. Yoji offers pleasantries, asks if he can help her find anything, but she squeaks "No thanks," barely audible. The boys let her roam while they talk about this week's new singles.

Kariya’s first and only game is a disaster. The Composer’s missions are insane.  _Defeat sixteen Noise in the proper order. Get from the Scramble to Cat Street in fifteen minutes. Find my shadow before the sun sets._  Kariya and his partner are one of the better teams, but even they are collapsing over the finish line each day in a heap of sweat-soked clothes and haggard breaths. Every day there are more and more Noise, swarming around them, slashing and smashing and bruising; more than once Kariya loses track of his partner's wavelength and starts to wander, thinking they've been separated, only to wince and recoil as a sharp pang marks the edge of their range. They can’t keep this up. Kariya knows what comes next, and he gets a lump in his throat whenever he thinks about it.

Day five. Surrounded on all sides. Kariya spins and swings his hand out, tossing bolts of orange in a cone. A snarl from behind—he turns—not quick enough. A huge red claw rakes his chest. He staggers and falls on his back. The memory brings phantom pain to the reality; he quietly slides his hand under his parka, knowing but barely seeing that he's still in the store beside Yoji, and clutches his chest. His partner jumps in front of him, but there’s nothing she can do on her own. She takes the brunt of a tackle, half-falls backwards onto him; the whole party tumbles awkwardly, until another Noise joins the fray and drives a horn through her back. Kariya swallows a scream as she drifts away on currents of static.

He leans back and chokes on ragged breaths. The beasts loom large, blocking the light and wind. He hears them snarl and feels the ethereal chill of their breath. But none of them make a move. He lies there, eyes shut, waiting. But there’s no killing blow. Suddenly there’s another form hovering over him, one that gives him a headache. With a thunderclap the Noise is edged out of existence, fading like a bad picture on a channel the TV’s not meant to get. The Composer’s voice booms in Kariya’s ears.

**Don’t sleep on me yet. I’ve got a job for you.**

The phone rings. Yoji cuts off a conversation Kariya wasn't listening to and answers. Kariya stuffs his hands in his hoodie pockets and takes to watching the girl. She scans the CD racks with purpose, mouthing each letter she passes. She knows what she’s looking for, but not where to find it. He strides over quietly and stands next to her, pretending to search the shelves as well. After a moment he says, "Lookin’ for something?"

The girl stops, but doesn't respond at first, as if unsure he's talking to her. Finally, she nods—opens her mouth to speak—then thinks better of it and resumes her search. Kariya tries again.

"What’s it called? I’ll get it."

Another moment's pause. With effort she manages a name, in the same mousy voice as before. He recognizes the name, of course. Some new dance album, popular with the teeny boppers. All perky synth and lyrics about cute boys. Not his thing, but he suspects it isn’t hers either; no doubt she wants it because the popular kids do. He plucks it off the rack and scans it front-to-back.

"You sure this's what you want?"

"U-um. Well…" The girl seems to shrink inwards, looking down and twiddling her fingers. Busted. Kariya smiles gently and picks up a few other CDs: some personal favorites, and a few of Yoji’s top picks.

"What about these?" he says, shuffling through the stack. "I think you'd like them."

Her expression lightens. She stares deliberately at the discs in his hands, and rubs her bottom lip. There’s a battle going on in her head. Kariya chuckles.

"No presh," he says, "give it some thought. Sampler's over there"—He nods to the CD player on the far wall—"Scan the code on the back and it’ll bring 'em up. Just pick what sounds right."

She nods a thank-you and takes the stack. Kariya almost pats her head, but then he feels the pin in his hand. He stares at it as he walks in and out of the fog, across Shibuya to the counter, stumbling to keep up with the Composer’s pace and trying not to disturb Yoji. He’s still panting, and his legs feel like jelly.

_Why'd you save me?_  he thinks, or possibly says out loud, it’s hard to remember.  _Why let me see that and then save me? Am I like your pet?_

**In a way,** the Composer laughs. **Why? Don’t you _want_ to live?**

_After my best friend just kicked it trying to save me? Hard to say._

**You have other friends, don’t you?**

A terrible boiling rises in Kariya's gut. He lurches forward, no longer sure where he is or who can see and struggling to care. His arm moves two ways at once—falling straight and rigid against the counter, fighting not to leap over it; and bursting forth, seizing the Composer’s collar, or the fuzzy gray mass of collar-shaped aether-static around his neck, or whatever the hell that is. And somehow it materializes, responds to his anger, and he grasps velvety fabric. Spins the Composer around. Looks him right in the eyes. 

_What the fuck is your deal!?_

The smoke around his mouth furls and crackles as he laughs. **Maybe you were expecting a comfier afterlife.**

_I just watched someone die. Maybe for good. Because of your sick little game. Because you couldn’t let us be. Why her, of all people? Why put her through that again!?_

Then, at the top of his lungs: _Why her and not me!?_

Kariya covers his mouth, catching the 'wh-' in 'why.' Yoji gives him a look. He jerks his head around. The girl hasn’t heard him; she’s got headphones on, trying out some of those CDs. He exhales hard, plants his elbows on the counter, hangs his head, and finally croaks "I’m fine" half through his jacket. After a moment, Yoji returns to the call; he knows enough about Kariya not to ask. The bell rings again, but Kariya doesn’t take notice until he hears a familiar, sugary-sweet voice.

“Hey old man. You look like hell.”

Many years ago and several years ago, Kariya is lounging on a cool leather sofa, listening to the distant trickle of water. Several years ago, the sound is punctured by the stiff soles of expensive shoes on marble floor.

_Kariya Kōki,_  comes the deep, throaty voice of a serpent,  _meet your new partner: Yashiro Uzuki._

Kariya looks up and over his shoulder at her. She looks so much like his old partner. He knows the Composer did it on purpose. He turns back around, waves half-heartedly, and says,  _Nice to meetcha._

“More PTSD?” she says. “You really are like an old veteran.”

Uzuki never lets him stay in the past. Her voice compared to others' is the difference between a real-life human being and a busted old radio. She talks like she’s making fun of him, but rubs his back at the same time. “C’mon, you geezer. This was your idea. You can go to pieces when we're not on the clock.”

"Yeah, yeah," he says. "Don’t worry, I’m good to go."

“You sure?” Then, after a pause, “Can I help?” Kariya turns his head her way, not quite looking at her, and smirks.

"You could get me some ramen."

Uzuki chuckles and lightly slaps his back. “If you're hungry, you'll live. Well, you know... relatively speaking.”

She leaves shortly afterward; just making the rounds. Actually observing protocol, “unlike _some_ slobs around here.” That, and she knows Kariya would want to see her. She’s right, of course. He gets a spring in his step when she’s around, a warm fuzzy feeling his old partner used to give him, but without that twinge of guilt he always got when she would do something amazing for him, give him that one-in-a-million smile, and he could give nothing back except his crooked, ugly smirk. Unlike his lost friend, Uzuki has a temper; she gets impatient; she makes mistakes and backpedals. She's a little broken like him, and that’s what he loves most about her. Composure regained, he starts thumbing absentmindedly through Yoji’s reviews.

**Everyone has their trials to face,** says the Composer, **even in the hereafter. All I can do is give people another chance; I can’t go easy on anyone. As for you: You’re unique. I can use your talents.**

Kariya says he doesn’t feel unique. He feels like garbage. He didn’t have anything to offer the team. She had the best psychs, she solved the hardest problems, she was the optimistic one in their direst hours. She practically carried him through their missions, he says. She was the one with the talent, and she blew it all on him. He says he should’ve been the one to die.

**When you got here, you told me you loved this city. That you could feel its pulse. You accepted my game because you wanted to keep that experience with you as long as you could. But now you see the price you must pay.**

Kariya spots a review for a new single.  _Emptiness and._  He cocks an eyebrow—looks at it for a second—double-checks with Yoji—Nope, not a typo. It’s just  _Emptiness and._  And what?

**I took your drive as an entry fee. Since you lost, I can’t return it. Without drive, your influence on the world is minimal. You’ll fail to reach people. Fail to save them. You’ll be forced to sit and watch as they are destroyed—or destroy themselves.**

The cash register clicks and whirrs. The girl's checking out. He looks up as she’s leaving the store, and sees an album in her hand. It’s the dance pop album.

**But that void is just one piece of you. There’s more to you than that. You’ve shown me today that you still have your passion for people. With that, you can do good for this city—marvelous good. I need you, Kariya.**

It’s getting late. The boys must be on their way, and he needs to get ready. He takes one last look at the pin, then clenches it tight in his fist and walks out the door.


End file.
